


Something Worth Living FOr

by phirephox666



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, More angst, Stream of Consciousness, Swearing, like woah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phirephox666/pseuds/phirephox666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then your little girl. Your beautiful, beautiful baby girl. The baby girl you want so damn bad it's not even fucking funny. (But it's not your choice to keep her and with your record no one's gonna let you keep her on your own and what the fuck would you do with a kid in your house, sometimes you're still surprised you and Sarah survived there.)</p><p>"Pray that your loneliness spurs you in to finding something worth living for, something worth dying for." -Dag Hammarskjold</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Worth Living FOr

_"Pray that your loneliness spurs you in to finding something worth living for, something worth dying for." -Dag Hammarskjold_

_Running. Falling. Weeping. Standing. Yelling. Aching. Hitting._

Running after his father. Last words echoing. Be a man, be a man, boy. Falling to the ground, no one to help him up, picking his own self up for the first time but not the last. Never again. Never letting anyone in ever again. Lock it shut, nothing left. Anger, Pain. Be a man, be a badass . (Maybe if he'd been more of a man his father wouldn't have left.) Take care of yourself first (and yet somehow Sarah still matters most.)Yelling back in every fight with his mother. Yelling back when she falls into the bottle leaving a fucked up eight year old to learn how to take care of a baby. (Later he's amazed they both survived his clumsy care.) God, he hates and aches and wants nothing more than his parents and wants nothing less than he wants them all at the same time. Hitting things, because it makes him feel better, more in control. He's hardly been in control of anything since the first day of his god dammed life. Fight club is the best and somehow, somehow, he learns how to fight for real, not just get beat up. Don't look back, don't look forward. Grow up now, grow up fast (too fast) because there's no one else. Be a man., Puckerman, be a man.

_Hitting. Screaming. Laughing. Fighting. Bleeding. Fucking. Breaking._

Prove yourself, every goddamned day. Your a badass, you can take that hit, dole out that punishment, scoff in the face of the authority you ain't ever gonna respect because what the _fuck_ should you care what they say when they never helped you any. (Never raised a kid sister at the age of eight. Never had to wait in the hospital 'cuz your ma nearly drunk herself to death when you where ten, with a two year old little girl clinging to you not old enough to understand.) Scream your head off from the top of every rooftop and from underneath every streetlight. Fight every second of every day to get respect because you don't get something unless you earn it and it takes a whole hell of a lot for any fifteen year old to earn it. Measuring every day by how much blood you spill, how much blood you lose. Measuring yourself by each bruise, by the circumference of your arm, the circumference of your dick. (Not every bruise comes from the fights and you don't mind getting hit sometimes because it covers your shame that you can't avoid your own mother's fists.) Fighting, hitting. Laughing at the world, crazy, adrenaline filled laughs. No more tears left to cry, haven't been for fucking years. Screaming so hard hysterics obvious to you, hidden to the world (if only just barely, the facade slipping ever so slightly.) Take it all over. Break everything, anything, 'cuz their all gonna leave you anyway. Break it first. Don't stop or your gonna self-destruct, don't stop.

_Breaking. Wanting. Losing. Crying. Singing. Wishing. Finding._

Breaking down, self destructing, moving to break everything and then her. Wanting her and getting her. And losing her. She's gone. Just like that, gone. Then your little girl. Your beautiful, beautiful baby girl. The baby girl you want so damn bad it's not even fucking funny. (But it's not your choice to keep her and with your record no one's gonna let you keep her on your own and what the _fuck_ would you do with a kid in your house, sometimes you're still surprised you and Sarah survived there.) Then theirs losing her, losing them both, losing your best friend and it _was not worth it._ You've got Glee. Don't know how or why (it might have something to do with the fact that Kurt, Mercedes and _Fucking Santana_ walked in on you singing 'Beth' crying your eyes out because it hurts so goddamned bad it's hard to breathe sometimes) but you've got Glee and you've got singing. Oh, god singing. There's nothing quite like that fire in you're veins. Like fire and emotion rushing through you and out your mouth and your soul. You even rival Rachel in soul, during singing, when you really try. You're wishing and wanting and losing because you never get _anything._ Wishing for another chance, for your baby girl, for fucking freedom from that bitch and the bottle of Jack she keeps. And everyone always leaves. Except somehow losing them both (barely holding your daughter for a moment and snapping a crappy cell phone picture before she's just _gone._ ) you've found something. Something blond and beautiful and all together different than anything else in your entire, _pathetic_ existence. Something, don't give it up yet.

_Finding. Watching. Needing. Warning. Wooing. Relaxing. Giving._

Finding him, watching him. So beautiful and new and nothing's the same. Nothing's simple and not even bleeding clears your head anymore. Not really knowing how to do this, you've not let anyone this close in _years_ and he doesn't even know yet. (And isn't this just _fucked up._ ) And you're afraid (whispers of 'Be a man' still echo through your head) because you need this. Every touch, however unintentional, because he still doesn't know, sets your skin _aflame_ with such intensity it's ridiculous. Somehow he's gotten under your skin. You're watching him and noticing. Noticing that you are not the only one watching. There's another one, only his gaze is not caring. It's twisted and dark with a stark contrast of hate and need and desire so strong it makes you shiver. And it makes you angry beyond belief because he would taint something so pure. You know what to do. (Clarity, perfect, crystal clarity. Clarity you haven't had for years, not since you realized you had to make it so Sarah was _not like you._ ) Slam this one up against the locker, give him a black eye, a warning. 'Stay away or I'll break your legs.' and then you take away his left wrist, breaking it cleanly. There's no way to prove it was you. He leaves, scared, and you feel both triumphant and guilty. You not even sure how you win this untainted angel. There's soft words, you meaning them for once. Acceptance, such a shock you nearly sob with relief. Acceptance is new, something given only by the soft words of a small six years old girl with the curls he's always denied having. Finally finally giving control to someone else. (Isn't that a weird thought, _giving up control_ , instead of taking it.) Being taken care of. (Almost as foreign of a concept as giving up control.) Gentle words letting you give yourself completely. "Let go, Noah. Let go, baby."

_Giving. Hoping. Holding. Drawing. Making. Knowing. Loving._

You spend every moment together and somehow find yourself slipping back into Noah. Giving up this facade of toughness (and the whispers that have echoed so long are drowned out by sweet words and soft lullabies.) Never can this end. You'll shatter and so will he because the two of you have melded, meshed together and poured yourselves into each other. Hoping, hoping that nothing can ever break this. Together you build a world, build it all up, tear it all down, together. Always together. Hold each other in the dark, at night, and whisper dreams and fears and hopes and everything you've ever not dared to wish for for fear of it being snatched from beneath your eyes. Somehow you slip back into drawing ( you stopped and can't remember why but somehow it's even easier now than it was, like slipping on a second skin that fits just right.) And everything you draw is a new creation, like your mind spills onto the page taking over your hand and using it. He's so proud of you. You create and your grades are going up and you are not even cheating. (You never have, although most people would scoff at that. You don't cheat, you just don't do.) You've found him and in finding him you've found yourself again. You know each other better than any other person. He knows that your mother has spent more time with a bottle that with her own daughter and that you wish you'd been able to keep you daughter but knew it wouldn't have worked with Ma there. You know that for years he feared being rejected by his own father because he was gay and he's never hated anything more than he hated falling in love with a straight, homophobic guy. It's deeper knowledge than you think that anyone could possibly understand without experiencing it. You know each other so deep that even before it's said it's understood. You slip into loving each other as easily as breathing. Just keep breathing, loving, knowing. "I love you." "I love you too." And it's ecstasy.

_Finis._


End file.
